


The Propensity of Summer

by Chromat1cs



Series: Basingstoke Diaries [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunk Sex, Editor!Remus, M/M, MWPP, Marauders, Marauders' Era, Mechanic!Sirius, Post Hogwarts AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9128779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromat1cs/pseuds/Chromat1cs
Summary: Sirius can't help that he's more than a bit of a bastard, and Remus isn't making it easier by looking like royalty in what used to be Black family robes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hallo all! Thank you for the wonderful kudos and comments on "Black is the Color," it makes me so happy that you all enjoy this AU as much as I enjoy building it. 
> 
> Fair warning, there's a bit more detail of the R/S escapades in this one. The last scene is 100% consensual but is still heavily driven by both of them being drunk, so I just want to put that warning in clearer terms here in case anybody is bothered by that and wants to avoid it. 
> 
> I promise I'm not an alcoholic; this was largely inspired by my most recent experience at a wedding in September, which included a heinous amount of alcohol. There were a lot of Swedes in attendance. I take full responsibility for all the bourbon Maine poured that night.
> 
> Thank you again for reading, enjoy, happy new year! Here's to lots more lovely Wolfstar in 2017!

James Potter is ludicrously hungover. Pathetic, really, and would have been hilarious if he wasn’t periodically moaning about how much his head was hurting. His limbs are taking over the couch like some kind of knobbly octopus trying to gain purchase on a cliffside, if octopuses could whine about red currant rum and repeat the name of their fiancée over and over like it might help. Sirius thinks briefly and intently about stumbling back into the bedroom to get Remus’ Polaroid and immortalize a photo to show the inevitable children that will pop up in the years to come: _Look at your heroic father, felled by the evil spirits of mead and liquor!_

“Now aren’t you glad I scheduled in the extra buffer day before the ceremony?” Remus hums over his tea at the kitchen table, not looking up from the paper but smiling smugly.

“Get corked, Moony, give me that bloody loaf of bread on the counter. Need something in my stomach. Merlin, Sirius, why the fuck did you let me drink so much?”

“Tried to stop you, mate,” Sirius grates out over the gravel of exhaustion and a touch of his own nausea as he flops down to a sit at the foot of the sofa. James makes a strangled sort of protesting sound and draws himself into a sloppy wad of fetal clutter.

“Don’t make me move,” a withering gurgle from the depths of James’ despair. Sirius nudges his knee, jostling James’ foot in jest, and receives the start of a colorful admonishment before James stops cold. In a flash he tumbles to a stand, glasses askew, and thunders into the bathroom with a slam where he empties his stomach loudly.

“I believe that’s 5 galleons you own me,” Remus says cheerily, his eyes bright as he looks at Sirius overtop of the Daily Prophet. Sirius snorts good-naturedly, waves a hand in accepting dismissal, and leans back with a heavy sigh to close his eyes.

It really had been a phenomenal stag night, which was made even more stupidly hilarious by the constant jabs and puns about stags. They had taken drinks in the top ten wizarding pubs in London, a circuit orchestrated by Remus and Peter with a strict timetable that somehow made it more fun. Sirius had been unused to enjoying anything scheduled, but he quite loved the fraternal glow that followed the quartet through the streets at each half-hour mark. James was liquored up double at nearly every pub as barkeeps or other patrons discovered he was getting married in two days, and Sirius found that his job of making sure James didn't get sick was a shambles after the first four establishments. He counted them all lucky that James only seemed to grow more and more loyal as he spiraled into drunkenness though, for the bachelor-bound risk of slipping into inebriated infidelity disappeared to absolute zero when he began improvising sonnets about Lily at the sixth pub—Remus had helped him find more romantic synonyms for ginger, Peter had applauded each one with farcical solemnity, and Sirius had laughed until he couldn’t breathe. For all his disrepair though, James was to be praised for his ability to keep his guts down until this morning. Sirius was impressed that the Floo trip back to the Basingstoke flat at two in the morning went without illness, with the final decision to keep James on their couch instead of letting him home to Lily being a mutual one, however slurred, between Sirius and Remus.

“Anymore tea?” Sirius asks, his voice still flexing off the rust of revelry. He turns to face the kitchen and his heart flutters to see Remus at his shoulder already with a tall mug brewed to Sirius’ minute specifications of one sugar and exactly two-and-a-half teaspoons of cream.

“Just enough,” and Remus’ eyes are still smiling as he passes it over, a motion through which Sirius would have leaned and kissed him were it not for the sounds of sickness emanating from their bathroom to ruin the moment. He settles for taking the offering and kissing instead the back of Remus’ hand, feeling the scratch of his morning stubble rake softly on the smooth skin. Remus blushes with a start.

“Sirius Black, you reckless bastard,” he whispers fiercely, shooting a look at the closed bathroom door as a particularly violent hacking sound comes through. Sirius takes a deep sip from his cup, a healing draught made by Remus’ careful hands so _It’s perfect, it’s always bloody perfect…_

“He would have thought it was a hallucination in this state, no worries,” he sings. He grins at Remus, delightfully teasing, and the brief war between frustration and humor that wages in a flash in Remus’ eyes makes him smile wider.

The toilet flushes suddenly, shoving them back into the present as James throws open the bathroom door and leans heavily on the frame.

“You look like a flobberworm,” Sirius says with candor through another sip of tea.

“One of you had better make me some fucking breakfast now, or you’re both cut off from the open bar tomorrow night,” James says darkly, glaring with watery eyes as he wipes his mouth roughly. Remus makes an alarmed noise and darts back into the kitchen, where he draws his wand and sets intently to the stovetop to get eggs and toast browning in an instant. Sirius laughs; James groans. The couch becomes the haven of a humanoid octopus again.

—

“Moony?” Sirius calls from the depths of the wardrobe. A face-full of dress robes he hasn’t looked at since the last Christmas feast are pillowed around him like dark, crushed velvet clouds, and the smell of his own cologne imprinted on so much fabric is almost making him dizzy. He has four hours to pick a set of robes and get decent, and it’s harder than he had anticipated.

Remus appears in the doorway, a red quill behind his ear and a sheaf of marked-up parchment in his hand, and raises an eyebrow.

“You look like a peacock.”

“Says the one with a feather on his head. Here—“ with a grunt at Sirius shoves five sets of robes sliding along the hanger rod to divide the silver-and-green abominations he hasn’t worn since he was 14 to the edge of the cabinet, “—help me pick.”

Remus sets his work down and stands beside Sirius, furrowing his brow at the robes that have just been pushed aside. “You’ve thrown out almost everything else you had from your family, why save the Slytherin-y ones?”

“Just one set is worth more than all of our furniture combined but nobody will buy them these days unless I can find a good fence in Diagon Alley around Christmastime,” Sirius grumbles. “Can’t just burn them because it would be like burning money, no matter how much it would get me off.”

Remus chuckles to himself, low and boyish at the apparent mental image, and Sirius finds the sound twisting pleasantly in the pit of his belly. Remus reaches into the soft swaths of expensive fabric left to peruse, inspecting each one closely.

“Is this _all_ handmade?” he asks with a touch of wonder, his baked-in hate for the family he never met—but despises nonetheless for how badly they broke a young Sirius—briefly abandoned.

“Embroidered by house elves, or the odd squib maid if they’re old enough. Some of these are third generation that were tailored to fit.” Sirius watches as Remus touches the intricate patterns as if they were the pages of some ancient book, his fingers soft and inquisitive across the different types of rich textures. Sirius tries to swallow his arousal from something so stupidly bland; it only works halfway.

“Ah, these are from the last party the girls arranged at school!” Remus’ voice leaps into joy as he uncovers the black-and-white brocade number from their seventh year, ink-dark and woven with braids of leafy silver that cut the silhouette of Sirius’ shoulders in dangerously alluring perfection. He recalls that Remus could hardly pull him into a storage closet quickly enough as the festivities died down that night, murmuring tipsy and filthy things about the activities the sight of such a well-dressed Sirius Black inspired him to do after nursing a secret flask of Firewhiskey all evening. As if to make a point, he had deftly undone the very fine trousers and took to his knees in front of them in heated, insistent worship.

“What about gold?” Remus pulls the sleeve of a rich velour in goldenrod yellow, the robes Sirius had ordered special when he turned sixteen with the first measure of his own money from Uncle Alford. In the most supreme Fuck Off to his family he could think of, he requested a lion motif across the lapels and into the expanse of the upper back. They had turned out wonderfully, the detailing immaculate and sparked through with lapis and lace, and he finished the ordeal off with a brilliant midnight blue cravat that made his eyes pierce like daggers. He doesn't think that Remus has ever seen him wear these robes, and excitement stirs in him like dark chocolate.

“I think that would be a marvelous choice, Lupin, thank you, your expert opinion wins again as always,” Sirius says with mock reverence, as Remus turns to him with the intention of smugness but is instead caught in a slow, long kiss that leans him back against the fragrant fabric.

“You should borrow some,” Sirius says against the warmth of Remus’ neck, “We can’t dance together so we might as well make one hell of an arrival.”

“Honestly, Sirius,” Remus’ voice catches, hitched on the freckled heat that always burns across his cheeks when he’s even slightly flustered, “the only thing that would make me look more ridiculous is a pair of pajamas. I— _ah_ —was just going to wear a Muggle tuxedo.”

“While I’m sure that would also look dashing beyond belief, you would floor the whole lot of them in my trousers,” and Sirius has to smirk wide and canine at his delicious innuendo while his right hand makes the hallowed journey beyond the hasp of Remus’ jeans. Remus closes his eyes in silent bliss, clutching desperately at Sirius’ shoulders and whispering feather-light encouragement to the tune of several rapid-fire little _yes_ es as his eyes squeeze shut briefly in ecstasy.

“What color then, o master tailor?” he breathes, making glorious eye contact that smolders with the unsaid Yes, Just Like That, which Sirius has long since memorized the sound of anyways.

“I have plenty of green that matches your eyes. There are two with gold accents you should try, especially the one with purple cuffs. _Royalty.”_ Sirius teases at Remus’ ear and relishes the way he arches his body closer.

“I suppose I should try all of them, light your fancy before the ceremony, etcetera etceteraaa _aaahh,”_ and Remus’ hips buck forward sharply with a particularly decadent stroke that makes him slick and ever closer to release.

“You should indeed,” Sirius whispers roughly, while his pace increases and he gathers a gentle fist of Remus’ hair to carefully pull. A groan tears from Remus, feathery on the tremors of building arrival, and he kisses Sirius with frantic ardor.

“You know I’m going to be imagining things wholly inappropriate for such a family-oriented occasion in lieu of dancing with you,” Remus manages when he parts to take a gasping breath.

“Preaching to the choir, Remus,” as Sirius tugs on his hair just so and sucks softly a the skin beneath his jaw. Remus pants once, twice, lets out a desperate cry, and climaxes full-bodied and messily into Sirius’ palm. His own fingers fly to Sirius’ hair, gripping the base of his neck possessively as Remus’ hips rock and he exalts his rapture with Sirius’ name on his lips. Sirius catches it all in a kiss, stroking Remus slowly for every last iota of his pleasure until the pulsing subsides and Remus drapes his arms, spent, across Sirius’ shoulders.

“Methinks the shaggy black dog has a fetish for formalwear,” Remus teases, his voice sunny with satisfaction.

“Oh, coming from the one who sucked me off in a potions cupboard because he liked the way my party robes were shaped?”

Remus laughs, bright and the pleasant kind of sharp that makes Sirius’ heart swell with an unnerving dose of adoration. Remus draws his wand from the sleeve of his jumper and casts a tidy cleansing charm for the both of them before stretching with a yawn.

“That was different, I had to watch you pretend to laugh at all of Dearborn’s jokes and mingle with everyone so handsomely, and I couldn’t do anything about it besides use my imagination,” Remus says innocently.

“Who’s to say tonight won’t be a repeat, hm?” Sirius pulls the gold robes from the slightly-debauched wardrobe and smoothes them out on the bed, inwardly thrilled at the prospect of making an entrance; for all the emotional shortcomings and personality flaws that his friends have always been so eager to point out whenever he’s being a cock, Sirius Black has never lost the deep-seated craving for admiration and praise.

“I don’t know,” Remus says from behind him, “I think these are a pretty significant step up from the shabby duds that Lanky Lupin wore two years ago.”

He hoists a resplendent swath of green and purple braided with gilt thread, silk and velvet paired expertly in a doublet style that Sirius knows instantly will hug the straights of his torso like a dream.

“Careful, Moony, you’re aggravating the part of me that just drools for finery,” Sirius purrs, throwing himself theatrically onto the armchair in the corner while Remus inspects the robes and smiles to himself.

“Careful yourself, or you’ll end up drooling all over that embroidery of yours.” Remus hefts the borrowed robes over his arm, crosses to the bed, takes up his editing work again, and tickles Sirius’ nose with the tip of his quill. He laughs when Sirius sneezes violently, tumbling forward in the armchair. “Or sneezing on it, both a disaster for such _delicate_ material,” as he leaves the room as easily as he entered and Sirius hears the sarcastic stretch of his words. He wonders, not for the first time, how Remus can be so bloody alluring and frustrating at the same time.

—

Sirius fastens the back of the earring nervously, looking solemnly into the mirror as he turns to see how it winks from different angles. The delicate teardrop of diamond matches the immaculate white detailing his collar, bridging the sharp clean-shaven handsomeness of his face and the craftsmanship of the robes. He is unused to wearing jewelry these days, only the subtle and unobtrusive black stud he normally keeps in his left ear and every piece of silver cribbed off the instant he found out about Remus’ affliction, so it is an experiment of sorts to see how he fares replacing it with something more ostentatious. His cravat shines in the meager light of the sparse spare room he’s taken as his dressing place, giving Remus the comfort of the bedroom to figure out the complexities of the borrowed robes, and he thinks idly that they should probably make this room feel more lived-in to keep up appearances.

Squaring his shoulders again and preening at the pattern on his waistcoat, Sirius thinks back to the last wedding he attended: ten years old, bratty and bored and mildly confused by the scads of distant relatives watching as two cousins of some sort took vows and incantations together beneath an accusatory green canopy. He knows Lily and James decided to keep the actual matrimony terribly parochial and Muggle-based, in a little church this morning near Lily’s hometown for her family to attend alongside James’ without bustle from the Ministry. The reception they’re all invited to within the hour is for the greater part of James’ relatives, their friends from Hogwarts, and the couple’s shared propensity for a good time. Sirius feels a tiny window of sadness under his deepest layer—of which he would never tell James for fear of making him feel bad—at the fact he isn’t able to be there and actually _see_ his best mate tie the knot. For all the mess and grief he’s seen from marriage in his own family, it confuses Sirius somewhat to celebrate an institution that so muddled his own outlook on affection. But he’s been relearning everything these days, and he would have liked to start with resetting marriage as something lovely between two people he admires. He sighs lightly; just knowing it happened will have to do for now.

“Sirius, could you help me with this…chain? Thing?” Remus’ voice floats in across the hall raised in annoyed confusion.

Sirius straightens his vest in the mirror one last time, tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear, and crosses the tiny hallway into the bedroom. He stops in the doorway, faced head-on with the unexpectedly dizzying sight of Remus in finery that, by all laws of social restriction, should never have even come close to his body. He’s fussing with a gold chain detail on his left lapel, so he blessedly doesn’t catch Sirius fighting to compose his expression, suffused with so much affection that it rattles Sirius’ core. He has never before been gobsmacked with it all at once, but here it stands in plain—Remus Lupin, half-blooded, cursed, unabashedly pleasant, painfully frugal, representing everything Sirius was bred to hate and yet is drawn to with terrifying gravity. The back of his mind hisses playfully _Well I’ll be fucked, you’ll ruin him with this soppy shit,_ but he pushes it away in favor of remaining, albeit stunned, in the present.

“I was right, you look fucking regal,” Sirius manages to say, his voice tight from trying hard to remember how to work, and Remus looks up from wrestling with the broach. Sirius steels every nerve in his body to keep his knees from buckling— _did you just swoon, you stupid wankstain?_ —as Remus looks at him with the unease of one in costume. The collar of plum-colored lace rakes high at his jaw, pronouncing the arch of his neck that Sirius had never thought of as aristocratic but could pass now as something out of a portrait in the hall back at Hogwarts. His hair is tamed sideways, still turbulent in its wavy whorls but parted beautifully, and the characteristic, accidental grace of his stature is complimented by the demure drape of robes across his shoulders. He is maddening, relentless perfection.

“I’m just having trouble with this last bit,” Remus mumbles, fingering the skewed pin at his breast pocket. Sirius steps closer and laughs, nearly too-loud with nerves for oh Merlin, Remus doesn’t disappear like the mirage he seems to be but somehow becomes more real with proximity. He plucks the broach from the robes and turns it over in his hand.

“This is the Black crest, _this_ is what belongs in a bonfire. Looks better without it anyways,” he murmurs, still unable to tear his eyes away from Remus’ elegance. Remus smiles and almost stops Sirius’ pulse dead when he reaches up to touch the diamond earring instead.

“This is nice,” he hums, and he steps back to survey the patterns of Sirius’ robes. “You look like a prince.”

“The prince of disowned bastards and motor oil, maybe,” Sirius jokes as he sets the angry-looking pendant on the dresser behind him. He somehow refrains from blurting out that if he looks like a prince then Remus looks like a deity, and he glances at the clock to his left. “Nearly time to get there, are you set?”

“Just—one more to tide me over…” and Sirius is pulled forward by his lapels into a haphazard kiss, for which his body had been screaming throughout the small lifetime of the past several minutes. His hands find purchase on the velveteen curve of Remus’ waist, pulling him so close he feels the ever-quickened heartbeat caged in that scarred and lovely chest. They are both knowingly careful to leave each other’s hair untouched, both mops near impossible to fix once mussed, but Sirius feels the echoing warmth of Remus’ body in his veins, their hips and thighs moving to slot together by memory, and craves to command his pleasure again despite his earlier release.

“Careful there, or we’ll never get out the Floo,” Sirius whispers with a punctuating nip on Remus’ bottom lip. He can’t help but push himself against the solidity of Remus’ leg before stepping back, and the fluttering exhale that leaves Remus is worth the ache in his trousers.

“I know, just—that would have to happen eventually, better to get it done in private.” Remus is flushed a healthy red as he fixes the lay of his tunic, and Sirius understands for the first time the impulse to declaim stupid fucking sonnets. He tamps it down like a cockroach, composing his psyche roughly before glancing in the mirror to confirm all is as he should be.

“Shall we?” Slightly breathless and yes, he sees the same chaotic wonderment sketched across Remus’ face, but what of this strange and looming resistance of _I Feel It Too But Men Do Not Bloody Talk About This Feeling_ that crackles between them like an oil fire? Sirius feels unmoored. Remus nods, extends an elbow with a measure of lightheartedness they both need desperately, and leads them to the hearth.

—

“Sirius Black and Remus fucking Lupin!!”

Sirius hears an excitable voice fade in to his left; he brushes a puff of soot from his chest once the pale green flames of travel recede and he finds himself between the clawing maw of the reception hall fireplace and a vibrant crowd of guests in various states of arrival. A jostling presence beside him pulls his attention to Caradoc Dearborn, grinning and dashing and infuriating and already a far cry from tipsy as he makes a show of looking at the two new attendees.

“Merlin afire, boys, where did we get _these_ weeds?” Dearborn demands, pawing at the embroidery on Sirius’ shoulder as Sirius expertly sidles away from the hand, his disdain unnoticed through Dearborn’s drunken excitement.

“Deep in the annals of my ex-family’s rage, not a mission I would encourage,” Sirius says dryly, again sidestepping gracefully out of the way as the shorter man makes to throw an arm about his shoulder. Dearborn stumbles into the empty space Sirius has made and fixes him with a rumbling and too-sweet smile, the dark brown of his eyes flashing with reigned anger beneath their cloud of merriment.

“No, I suppose not,” he bites out before stalking back into the crowd. Sirius feels his face burn briefly with rage, but he forces himself to compose his discomfort as he turns back to Remus.

“We find James and Lily, and then we find drinks,” he says a bit too insistently, but Remus acquiesces with a smile and they begin winding their way through the throng of celebrating guests. To Sirius’ surprise, he discovers that he and Remus are hardly the most dazzling people in attendance; he had forgotten to factor in the reality of James’ extended family, the endearing kind of pureblood lineage full of eccentric aunts and uncles who have embraced the rare opportunity to break out the dress robes that make even his own look casual wear.

Passing old classmates with smattered Hello!s and It’s Been Too Long!s through the throng of draped bodies, Sirius suddenly feels Remus tug on his sleeve to point to the head of the room. He follows with his eyes and feels a tremor of pride and happiness rock through him when he sees James and Lily sitting together at a table on a slightly-raised dias, accepting greetings and gifts with glowing laughter. Lily looks like a queen in white and gold, her hair caught back in woven braids, and perhaps for the first time James looks comfortably mature—a new solidity in his confidence that emphasizes his easy handsomeness and joy. Sirius has only twice before entertained the thought of James Potter being worth anybody’s romantic pursuance, and this moment makes three. There is absolutely no doubt that these two were meant to be together.

Sirius puts a subtle hand to Remus’ back to make sure they don’t lose one another in the crowd—it’s ridiculous, really, how many people these two know with only 19 years of life behind them—and they beeline for the dias. When they come within twenty feet, James looks up from greeting a relative’s new baby and breaks into a smile so wide at the sight of him that Sirius almost trips over his own feet. James quickly appends his farewell to his conversation, ducking around the table and bounding to the floor to greet Sirius with an embrace that almost knocks his breath out.

“You’re here! You look like some bloody _king,_ you fit right in!” James laughs, holding Sirius at arms’ length and grinning broadly at the resplendence of his robes. Sirius smiles along with him and pulls him bodily into another fraternal hug, a hunk of emotion suddenly welling up in his throat.

“You’ve done damn good, Prongs. I’ve finally got a sister,” he says as softly as he can over the din of celebration, and the response of James tightening his hold briefly and clapping him heartily on the back is the affirmative that almost makes Sirius cry. He miraculously holds it back, covering it expertly with a cough and a wicking flick at his tear ducts when he steps back.

“And bloody hell, _Moony?!_ I hardly knew that was you!” James and Remus share their own congratulatory moment before James turns back to the dias to call out “Lily! Come see this!”

Lily is already halfway towards them, evidently still getting used to navigating the crowd with crests of white silk and tulle at her waist. She is glowing, but she gasps when she looks at Remus.

“My God, were you really a prefect two years ago?” she cries, and the two share a laugh as Remus kisses her cheek in greeting.

“Congratulations, both of you, this is _amazing,”_ Remus says, buoyant with excitement. “Would never have believed this would pan out back in sixth year!” James hits him lightly on the arm, laughing with some colorful defenses. “Thank you also for the, ah, timely scheduling,” Remus says with a lower voice.

“Of course, Remus, wouldn’t have been the same without all four of you here. Tableware is pewter as well,” Lily says with a wink, as Jame’s expression races through confused to shocked to relieved in the lifespan of a moment.

“Oh fucking hell, I’m glad that was up to Lily,” he says meekly, pulling Remus into another hug as if in apology as Remus chuckles again and pats his shoulders comfortingly.

“Now go eat! Go drink! Photos within the hour, we’ll cast a charm when it’s time,” Lily rattles off expertly. James kisses her forehead with the giddy eagerness that broadcasts to the tune of The Luckiest Son Of A Bitch On Earth, and Sirius urges them back to the waiting line of guests at the table with a gracious gesture.

“I never would have thought of James as gallant, but I suppose nothing is impossible anymore,” Remus muses, echoing Sirius’ own thoughts from earlier as they make their way to the bar hung thick with gilt garlands. They order Firewhiskey, doubles both, and knock them back with hearty glass clinks and a boyish touch of their feet, tapping the toes of their dress shoes together surreptitiously like they have ever since Peter told them all it was some sort of old good luck motion. Sirius feels it burn in his belly and suppresses the urge to lick the cord of Remus’ neck that jumps out above his collar when he winces at the strength of the draught. _Fuck,_ he needs to keep that in check.

The food is rich wedding fare prepared by an uncle of James’ who inherited the culinary prowess that James’ father groomed into his wherewithal in potions. Remus has filled a plate and moved off with it to say hello to some fellow former prefects, so Sirius finds an edge of the hall to stand and watch the attendees without feeling too odd. The more Sirius looks around, munching on a tiny leg of pheasant scraped of as much thickened dark gravy as possible without seeming rude, the more he realizes calmly how little he knows about relationships with others. Friendship, sure; James and the others taught him just as much once he withdrew the barbs of 11-year-old pride and started agreeing to spend time with his roommates in first year. But really feeling a sense of belonging, of purpose, was dubious at best these days. These people are truly lovely, and enjoying one another’s company. It feels strangely foreign to be looking in on it from the outside, and he probably would have left if it were any other function besides James’ wedding. For all his show of dress and preparation, he only ever feels at home when he is literally at home, with Remus, quiet and closed-off and, if he was honest with himself, with a new species of barbs starting to grow on him that he could hazard to call Possessiveness if he cared to look inward deeply enough—

Sirius suddenly stumbles forward violently pitched off balance by a shove to his back. Mid-thought, tensed and vaguely flustered, he whirls around with his best Do You Know Who I Am, You Filth snarl ready to launch, but it dissolves immediately when he faces the laughing and well-dressed figure of Peter Pettigrew.

“Your face!” he cries with glee, imitating a high-bred voice with “ _‘You repulsive peasant, how dare you touch these robes, worth more than your life’_ —Merlin, Sirius, these really are cracking, aren’t they?” Peter moves to inspect Sirius’ sleeve with genuine interest as Sirius laughs and pulls him roughly into a greeting hug that is mostly headlock.

“Took you long enough, thought we’d find you at the food right away,” Sirius chides.

“Har-bloody-har,” as Peter extracts himself from Sirius’ strong elbow, fixing his hair and the lay of his robes with a grin, “the shop is open ’til 7:00 every evening. Can’t leave customers in the dark, now can I?”

“You could have for your best mate’s wedding,” Sirius sings, smiling beneath it with understanding.

“Tell that to the woman who needs Valerian root each Saturday evening at precisely 6:50—Remus!” Peter’s eyes light up when he notices Remus finding his way back over just beyond Sirius’ shoulder. “Cor! Is this what living with the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black does to a man? You look like some sort of baron!” Sirius hears the capital letters in his tone and watches Remus smile broadly.

“I only agreed to stop him from brooding, you know how he gets,” Remus quips back, the laughter in his eyes sallying Sirius with secret joking as he claps Peter with their own greeting hug. “Have you seen James and Lily yet?”

“Oi, Prongs has somehow managed to pull himself together; did you see his hair lying flat like that? Amazing. Caught them on my way in, right as they were getting to the end of that massive greeting line. How do they know this many _people,_ that’s what I need to know?”

“Fleamont Potter has an obscene amount of relatives, and you know Lily can name most of our year at school off the top of her head. James is just excited about the gifts.” Remus seems pleased with himself, the permanent shell ever tightened about him in crowded places loosened slightly by the Firewhiskey, as he smiles easily over the edge of his glass. Sirius can’t help but smile in return, the intoxication of celebration having creeped slowly into his bones and making him light in his mood.

The three old friends gather up another round of drinks, Peter joyous to see they’ve remembered his ritual of knocking feet before taking their shots. Remus goes with rum this time, its fragrance evident even from Sirius’ place beside him, and they all toast to health and abandon.

Peter and Remus head off to fill their dinner plates while Sirius holds their place at the table they’ve chosen, content with the small helping of food he had earlier and not one for much of such rich fare to begin with since leaving the feasts and fetes of his family years before. He’ll fill his belly with the good Muggle wine and probably a few more liquors before the night is up—a heavyweight tolerance to the bitter end, of which he takes advantage often. He hopes it’s enough to stave off the bleeding creep of deeper affection he feels in the pit of his being—even thinking about it makes him drink deeply, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment against the din of camaraderie while he lets fermented ease into the seat of his veins.

—

“If everyone could stand just a wee bit closer, thanks!”

The cluster of guests gathered in front of the portly photographer cram slightly nearer, and Sirius angles himself to give James a bit more room in the center of the frame.

“Watch yourself, Pads, you’ll be turned backwards if you keep shifting like that,” James mutters.

“Just trying to give you all a chance to look like decent human beings, a full-on of my face would pale you all in comparison,” Sirius responds with icy sarcasm, and he and James share boyish smirks at the old joke.

The photographer’s enchanted camera mechanism is chirping away during their shuffling, catching candid shots that Lily will undoubtedly keep in the back pocket of the scrapbook she’s bound to build of the reception, and Sirius makes sure to slip a couple of surreptitious rude gestures into view of the little machine while the majority of the others are distracted by organizing themselves.

The photographs have moved in chunks of familiarity, with James and Lily at the center of each one. First Lily’s parents—her sister and brother-in-law a sore spot of absence that nobody speaks of outright, all pleasant soft smiles in the photo despite the space they left—followed by James’ parents, a cadre of aunts and uncles, cousins and grand-cousins, Sirius and James alone for fraternity’s sake, the married couple with Sirius, Remus, and Peter caught in a roaring laugh at a joke from Peter about garters, a complicated rotation of pods of their friends from Hogwarts, and now all of the young men and women crushed together into what they were currently attempting to make a single picture.

“Somebody’s perfume is going to suffocate me soon,” Remus hisses in Sirius’ ear, catching him off-guard with a shiver shooting up his spine. Sirius chuckles, low and uneven, to mask it.

“Breathe through your mouth and just keeping drinking, how do you think I survived all the pureblood dinner parties growing up?”

“9-year-old Sirius ‘just kept drinking’?” The auburn eyebrow raised in playful challenge does hectic things to Sirius’ insides, and the mutinous part of his mind makes him imagine for a moment leaning over and kissing Remus full-on amid the press of guests. He settles for grinning roguishly, hoping these confounding impulses will ebb away as the celebration spins into the night.

“Family secret, it’s how we’ve all stayed so positively vile for so long,” he hums through the assumption of a dashing smile when the photographer counts up to three in his pinched little accent, and Remus laughs freely as the flash of the camera pops before the lot of them; Sirius makes a hasty mental note to find a way to strategically ask Lily for this proof in particular.

The group sighs apart in satisfied motion then, collectively glad to be done with the archival tension of photos, milling apart as the tiny chamber ensemble in an alcove of the hall starts tuning. They gallop into a pastoral and energetic dance tune, folky and lively as Sirius is sure the greater palette of their setlist will sound through the night. He’s glad it won’t just be sickly-sweet waltzes all night, because if he must dance at any point he would like for it to feel like fun instead of tightly-wound duty. A large contingent of guests takes to the floor, and the dancing is officially underway with an excitable heightening of the dull roar filling the massive hall.

“At Muggle weddings the new couple always has to dance on their own first,” Remus muses aloud, prodding James with an elbow.

“Thank the wizarding world at large that we don’t have to suffer through James stepping on Lily’s feet for five minutes straight then,” Peter snorts, and Lily cackles as James flips Peter’s cravat into his face.

“Thank the wizarding world that I get a bloody break from all of this for a moment while everyone is distracted by their _own_ feet!” James sits heavily at the nearest table setting they’ve ended up standing near, and the other three men take the chance to sit as well.

“Well you four enjoy recouping, I don’t need a break quite yet,” Lily say, kissing James briefly before disappearing into the throng of dancers like a cumulus cloud.

Sirius leans back slightly in his chair, letting the tension of posture for the photos ease slowly out of his ribs with a small stretch. “Let’s be frank, lads, are any of us actually going to dance?”

“I have a wife now,” James deadpans, “I have to do husband-y things now, like dance with her. Later.”

“Mary Macdonald said she’d find me after getting a fresh glass of wine,” Peter mutters, fixing his cravat and sounding very unsure of himself.

“I should hope so, can’t just sit all night in these robes, can we now?” Remus pins Sirius with a heckling look and smiles, flustering Sirius out of his elitism.

“Well I—“

“Excuse me!”

The four men look to the edge of dance floor where a dark-haired young woman in pale pink is smiling shyly. She’s looking at Remus with the sort of eyes that betray the fact she desperately believes in love at first sight. Sirius doesn’t know whether to laugh or hurl a well-placed backhanded compliment at her.

“Would you like to dance?” she asks simply, and Remus quaffs the rest of his whiskey gracefully before standing up and smiling to take her hand.

“English or Viennese waltz?” he says with vigor as he moves them onto the floor, and all at once as Remus disappears from view Peter is in stitches, James is laughing so hard he’s wheezing, and Sirius is training a stiff smile onto his face as he sips deep from his glass.

“Ho- _hooo,_ Moony gets a dance before the princely Padfoot! Right off the bat, too, Merlin that was quick!” James jeers with juvenile hilarity.

“English or Viennese!” Peter manages to repeat, apparently the funniest thing yet to come out of an evening so far buttressed by dizzying happiness and too much alcohol.

“He needs more liquor if he’s going to keep up this extroversion, this is the most outgoing I’ve ever seen him outside of our yearly brandy binge,” James says quickly, struck by inspiration as he stands to make his way to the bar. “A shot for every dance partner!”

Sirius silently prays James only needs to order a single drink as he looks out to the dance floor. He tries not to stare too intently, forcing his gaze to flit around to several different couples periodically but always homing back in on Remus. He is light on his feet, always had been to the delight of a strict little dancing teacher who had taught after-hour courses at Hogwarts during their fifth year, and he twirls this girl easily through the whirling map of the dance steps. A vague echo that lives somewhere in the vicinity of Sirius’ wrists burns to know what it feels like to be led by him in a navigation of triple meter.

“You look pained, Pads. Does the idea of socializing wound you that deeply?” Peter asks through a hefty sip of ale. Sirius shakes his head, partially to clear his thoughts of wriggling jealousy and partly to reassume the air of comfortable aloofness.

“Haven’t been sleeping well lately, just trying to soldier through some tiredness,” he lies easily. “I’ll catch a second wind soon, Wormy, don’t you worry your pretty little head. How’s work?”

Peter picks up the lead of distraction like a fish to bait, and Sirius is relieved to let him prattle on for a couple minutes about herbs and poultices like a mother about her children, nodding in acquiescence at acceptable intervals. He lets the greater portion of his attention flick to the dancers periodically, looking for Remus as if he were some sort of lighthouse in this oceanic sprawl of silks and winnowing conversation. He hates his worry, and he does his best to drown it in dark red wine as he pours another glass from the bottle at the center of this table they’ve claimed.

“Oi, Sirius, does he?”

“Sorry, mate, who does what?” Sirius asks, returning to the present with refocused icy blue attention to Peter as the other man sighs light—if he’s frustrated, as he always has been with Sirius to some measure since they’ve been boys, he hides it well.

“Does Remus need more Wolfsbane?” he asks in a low voice.

“Ah, thanks, Pete, I think he’s got enough for now. He hasn’t used it the past two moons, so there’s measure enough left.”

“Is he alright then?”

“I suppose, he hasn’t said otherwise.”

“So you don’t know for sure.” Peter’s lack of a questioning tone, as if it were the plainest truth that Sirius lacked the empathetic foresight to ask after his flatmate’s accursed wellbeing, gnashes at Sirius like a switch.

“I guess I don’t, you can ask him yourself when he comes back after dancing with this tart,” he snaps, and immediately regrets it. Peter doesn’t look phased, only takes another draught of ale, and Sirius sighs. “Sorry. Lots—lots of wine.”

“None taken. How have you been doing, monthly vigil notwithstanding?”

Sirius is about to answer with some sort of less-concerning permutation of _Comfortably and hellishly confused but better than dead_ when Remus comes traipsing back to the table. His cheeks are flushed, excited and exerted all at once, and his breath has a healthy heave to it that reminds Sirius of how identical this looks to a postcoital Remus—he clenches the hand on his knee into a fist and wills away his arousal.

“So was it English or Viennese?” Peter asks with laughter in his eyes, still tickled by his own attempt at a joke, and Remus returns his smile as Sirius continues silently cataloguing his state: _He’s halfway to drunk, seen this before last spring when we finished that wine Just Because, if we were alone we’d both be down to pants and socks and unstoppable for more, damn it all—_

“English! She didn’t know there was more than one kind,” Remus replies, taking the seat beside Sirius and fixing some flyaway hair.

“ _Well,”_ Sirius scoffs in mock disgust— _or are you being serious? Check yourself, Black, reign it in_ —“how does one not know the difference? Outrage.”

Remus laughs, prods him with a knee in easy jest and receives the same in return. Sirius tries to pretend his isn’t laced with the intent of begging him to just sit for a while longer, drink with him, be with _him._

“Alright!”

The three men look over Remus’ shoulder as James reappears, two shot glasses held high to keep them from behind jostled by the crowd.

“Moony, you get a shot for every woman that asks you to dance! Cheers!” He grins wide as he sets one down in front of Remus and downs the other himself before sitting heavily. “I have a baffling amount of uncles.”

“How do uncles pertain to Remus being a complete Casanova?” Pete asks with a chuckle.

“They all kept wanting to clap me on my back and try giving me thinly-veiled wedding night metaphors!” James shivers dramatically as he mimes carrying two precipitous shot glasses and dodging burly family members. “Sorry that Firewhiskey wasn’t there to greet you on your immediate return. Drink up, then!”

Sirius tries to ignore the fact that James’ wedding night landed in the same mental vein as Remus clasping women close, watching as Remus tosses back the tiny glass. He winces, one eye closed, and coughs dryly.

“That was a double, you prat!”

“Aye, double the luck!” James and Peter crow at the same time, slapping their hands raucously in agreeable celebration. The band in the corner picks up into a cantering number, fast and folky and sounding all sorts of green. Sirius’ insides tug; if he had anything better than two left feet and less concern for what others though, now would be the ideal moment to whisk Remus into their own duet.

“Moony _MoonyMoony,_ look to your left,” James suddenly hisses in a stage whisper. Remus furrows his brow slightly and turns, met with the approach of a tall and waspish redhead who looks like a cousin of Lily’s.

“Irish?” she demands shortly.

“Half,” Remus blurts, his eyes wide with intrigue. The girl holds out a hand that clearly won’t take no for an answer, and Remus takes it as he stands.

“Jig or reel?” She eyes him like a racehorse, with clinical approval.

“Both,” and Remus almost trips over his feet as she guides them purposefully to the floor into the throng of fast footwork and rhythmic clapping. The three men left at the table sit in dumbfounded silence for a moment.

“Lily’s family?” Peter wonders aloud.

“One of nineteen cousins, I can’t remember all their names,” James admits sheepishly.

Sirius loses their string of conversation as it spirals into the inebriated analysis of family trees, choosing instead to look around and see if there were any women worth trying to convince himself to dazzle for a moment of much-needed distraction— _Oh come off it, you ponce, you haven’t so much as blinked at females since you wanked to the 1973 Kenmare Kestrels poster_ —he buries the sting of his constant inner critic with a long swallow of wine, trying hard not to sulk at his best mate’s wedding, so he forces himself to lean across the table and throw in some jabs and good stories about odious family gatherings.

After several minutes the band closes the lively tune with a flourish, and the hall applauds loudly as an excitable whole. Sirius looks to the dance floor, vaguely angry with his puppy-at-the-door sensibilities for showing through, but he doesn’t have enough wherewithal left to care; after stocking up his mental bank of Don’t Shag Remus In Public, most of the self-restraint he had left on reserve was wasted earlier on not decking Dearborn in his pretty, stupid face.

Through the remnants of a run, tripping up to the table after pushing gently through the mingling guests filled in around them, Remus breaks Sirius’ moping in a perfect study of bright eyes and flushed face. “I haven’t danced a reel since I was fifteen! It wasn’t terrible!”

“Don’t let another one of us get eaten alive by an Evans girl,” Pete says with exaggerated warning. Remus laughs easily, and Sirius wills his guts to stop contracting like that.

“Firewhiskey, rum, annnnnd Sirius? Anything?” James asks, pointing first to Remus and then to himself as he tallies up bar orders.

“Nah, thanks,” Sirius gestures blithely with his wine glass. James clips off to the bar and Remus takes his seat gratefully.

“One after the other, eh?” Sirius tries for geniality, hopes it cuts through the haze of frustrated ardor as something pleasant rather than injured. Relief touches him when Remus smiles broadly, and Sirius realizes it’s been quite a long time since he’s seen Remus proud of himself. The discovery hurts somewhat, like the tingle of pins-and-needles in his foot. Pete stands suddenly, muttering something about going to find Mary, and Sirius and Remus are left alone in the open sea of people.

“Apparently my mother did well to put me in folk classes as a boy,” Remus says, catching his breath and loosening his cravat. Sirius is sure to make the way he watches the motion hungrily evident, and Remus’ eyes flash in recognition and a small smile.

“Now I’m curious,” Sirius hums, every fiber of his limbs prickling to reach out and touch Remus somehow, “it’s a shame I can’t experience Moony’s masterful moves.” He smiles, proud of his own alliteration, and allows himself the holy pleasure of touching their knees together beneath the table cloth. Remus bites his bottom lip subtly, for Sirius’ attention only, and a giddy fire springs to life behind the green of his eyes.

“Pardon me!”

A light and musical voice tears Remus’ glittering stare away from Sirius with the invisible rip of a dagger and _Give him back, you harpy,_ the wine-laden mist of Sirius’ brain roars before he schools his expression into placid observance. _This_ pretty witch is fair, pale skin offset by a royal blue gown and a large bow catching back her pin-straight hair.

“Would you like to share a dance? I saw you out there earlier, you have lovely form,” she says with a surprising amount of confidence, Sirius awards her that ounce of respect. Remus smiles, freer and all the more dazzling for the drunkenness flirting with his bloodstream, and Sirius lets himself daydream briefly about catching Remus’ hand in his own possessively. He settles for sipping his wine again.

“Absolutely!” Remus says excitedly. He takes her by the elbow, steering them towards the floor before throwing a sunny smile over his shoulder at Sirius at a very I’ll Be Back, Dear angle. The innocent toss of it makes Sirius’ heart pull. He presses his thumb into the edge of his glass and tries to focus on the whitening of his skin instead of stupid, prickling jealousy.

James lopes up a second too late to save their exchange, watching the pair move past with eyebrows raised in exaggerated surprise.

“Again?” he asks Sirius for comedy’s sake, not expecting an answer as the music rises and Sirius downs the shot meant for Remus with a scowl.

The song closes after a fog of time—Sirius has forgotten to look away as often as he was sure to before, too intent on watching if he can’t very well have him, it’s reckless but he’s on his way to pissed and he’s frustrated and it soothes him to watch the lines of that body move so wonderfully—and Remus bows his farewell thanks with liquored charm while another jaunt starts. Sirius lets out a breath, small and relieved, as their eyes find one another across the floor and Remus starts back towards him, but like an assassin a blonde woman with short hair and a glittering necklace suddenly taps his shoulder. Sirius feels iron grind in his gut once more as it becomes clear she has asked him for the next dance, to which Remus glances gaily up at Sirius once, brief and infuriatingly amused, before accepting and moving back to the floor.

“He really does look like one of those heroes out of Beedle's 'Tales'” James laughs from beside Sirius, snacking idly on a handful of bar snacks. “No wonder he’s pulling left and right.”

“He’s a good dancer, makes sense,” Sirius growls in what he hopes isn’t evident anger. James narrows his eyes— _shit, too obvious._

“Your vanity is almost impressive, do you know that?” he chides. Sirius lets out a breath and assumes a haughty expression of attenuated pride.

“Comes with the blood, Prongs.” James barks a laugh and throws a date nut at him, pleased with himself when it bounces dully off the decorated vest.

“Get up and dance yourself, you bloody mutt. This place is full of beautiful people! I should know, I invited them.”

“I’m shit at dancing, this isn’t news,” Sirius snorts, tossing back the rest of his wine. He rakes the room for another glimpse of Remus, sees him laughing again with a carefree tilt to his head with the pretty, delicate hand in his own, and feels ire like pitch behind his ribs. He can’t fucking do this.

“Need a smoke,” he says quickly, “come with?”

“Nah,” James makes to move back towards the throng of dancers, “I’m not afraid to look like a plonker and actually have fun these days.” The bite in his words is quenched with a brotherly smile; “Don’t get lost, we’ll all be here when you’re back.”

Sirius stands and weaves expertly through the people in the hall to the blessed cool of outside. It had rained that morning—more good luck for the marriage according to Peter, ever with the superstitious witticisms—and so loamy freshness calms Sirius with a deep inhale. He walks several paces around the corner of the building and is pleasantly surprised to find Lily sitting contentedly on a bench by the tiny lake before them with her shoes off and a cigarette held fastidiously away from her skirts.

“Well good evening, little sister,” Sirius says brightly, plopping down next to her and flicking his own rolled tobacco alight with his thumb. Lily smiles at him, moving a swell of her skirts to allow space for Sirius to sit more comfortably.

“I’m barely younger than you, you git. Don’t tell anyone I’m out here, I just need a moment to rest my feet and breathe.” She takes a soft drag of smoke and turns to Sirius, her skin flushed with the permanence and outright beauty of pacified joy. If Sirius had any inclination towards women and any machinations against James, he would have asked for a kiss. “How’s dancing?”

Sirius clenches his jaw and hunkers into the bench. “Fine.”

 _“Fine,”_ Lily mimics, exaggeratedly pinching the posh, liquid vowel in Sirius’ accent. “You wouldn’t be out here if it was fine. What’s got you? You’re not allowed to be upset on my wedding day, you know.”

She looks at him searchingly, wide green eyes four shades lighter than Remus’ and full of motherly kindness instead of wolfish, arresting severity, and so Sirius blames his openness on the inviting security of her honest gaze; the whiskey and wine help too.

“Remus is pulling girls faster than he can finish each dance,” Sirius mutters, gesturing widely with his cigarette and taking a long drag; holds the smoke like a secret spell; exhales slowly in a wispy plume. Lily says nothing, and he knows she expects him to continue. Brooding anger wells up in his chest. “Alright, I’m jealous.”

“Clearly, but of whom?” Lily hums, so soft and kindly that Sirius almost misses the ambiguous point of her question that causes him to choke on his next draw. He wheezes through the clutch of smoke and a burning throat, his eyes watering slightly as he looks desperately to his left into Lily’s slight worry.

“Who told you?” he demands roughly, and Lily furrows her brow.

“Told me what?”

“Moony,” Sirius hisses, pinning her stare with purpose. Another moment flies by before recognition moves through her features and understanding follows quickly.

“Sirius, I’ve known since the end of seventh year.”

“Evans—!”

“ _Potter,_ thank you very much.”

“Not important! Does James know?!” Sirius feels his shoulders tingling with apprehension, the back of his mind reeling with the overanalysis of every interaction with Remus he’s ever had in front of James. Lily puts a serene hand to his arm and he nearly shakes it off out of cagey instinct.

“I’ve never talked about it with him, and he’s never brought it up.” She takes her hand back, brushes a fall of errant copper hair from her forehead, and smokes quietly for a moment. Sirius feels self-made tension gnawing through him like steel. “I know _you_ know he wouldn’t care if you and Lupin are shagging, but I also know that’s not the point,” Lily says softly. “But you can tell him whenever you’re comfortable, it won’t change anything.”

Sirius tries to speak, but the flummox of emotions rattling his heart keeps him silent for another short measure. He smokes his cigarette down to its end, lights another one, and sinks down into the bench with a heavy sigh. No more use trying to hide from her the secret he thought he had buried so expertly.

“I—think I’m a lot more…devoted to him than I bargained for, Lily. The domestic, long-term sort of shit,” he growls, “and I don’t know how to navigate that.”

“What, the mechanics of consummation? Because I think you two have probably figured that out by now.” Sirius realizes Lily is a bit further past sober than he is, and he cannot hold back a wry laugh.

“I know how _that_ works swimmingly. It’s—the bits my family shat all over, the things like caring and—and support and trust, _Merlin,_ I have the hardest time trusting him,” Sirius groans, raking an exasperated hand through his hair.

“You already care for and support him better than James did me at the outset, so stop worrying about that end,” Lily says with a confident pat to Sirius’ knee. Sirius finds comfort in it, and he puts his own hand on top of hers without looking away from the sprawl of the lake horizon in front of them. “What’s the hard part about trust for you?”

“…I’m afraid I’m not enough.” Sirius moves to take another drag on his cigarette, reconsiders, stubs it out on the arm of the bench and idly transfigures it into a moth that flutters away across the reeds. “Can’t give him normalcy, can’t give him a solid job, can’t be a wife, none of that. He’s so fucking brilliant, and I’m just some rudderless berk getting off on working with Muggle machinery all day, what's stopping him from looking for somebody _worth_ something?” Sirius looks up at Lily, bereft and vulnerable and spilling his deeper self for the first time in years. “I was convenient and—and exploratory when we started at school, and that’s okay if that’s what he needs for now, but I’m fucked, Lily. He’s so much more important to me than I thought he ever would be.”

“Sirius, you’re my brother now,” Lily says matter-of-factly, making Sirius quirk a small smile despite his turmoil, “so I can rightly tell you you’re being a massive minge. You’re not ‘convenient,’ you’re not worthless, you’re his best friend.”

“That’s it though!” Sirius replies, pained, “How does he see me in all this? I’m stumbling over my bloody feet thinking he’s the, the fucking answer to my _life_ , and what am I? I’m a _friend_ , I’m a big black dog that warms his feet on the weekend.”

“I’m going to embarrass you now, whose name does he say when you’re in bed?” Lily asks sternly. Sirius flushes pink and stares down at the grass.

“Mine.”

“Right. And who’s still next to you when you wake up each morning?”

Pink burns into red. “Remus.”

“I _knew_ you weren’t using that spare room; put a couch in it or something.” Lily finishes her cigarette and charms the the ashen end into a paper crane that flaps like a hummingbird, sending it away with a knowing smile at Sirius. “Don’t overthink it all, Pads. He’s making choices. He would tell you if he was unhappy. You both have plenty of time, just…don’t waste it being obstinate children, yeah? Talk through it with him when you feel ready, but don’t seal that sort of stuff in for too long. Life is short. Especially these days.” Sirius sees depthless concern and apprehension shimmering in her eyes then amid all the youth and happiness, the sickening duality of these whispers of war in their world that make his stomach turn when he thinks about it too hard, and he pulls her into a thankful, guarding embrace. Sirius feels emotion grip his throat for the second time that day, silently cursing his fragility amid it all, but he squeezes Lily tighter and knows she understands his gratitude.

“I’m going to go dance with my husband now,” Lily sighs, smiling brightly at Sirius and ruffling his hair lightly. “Coming with?”

“Soon,” Sirius says softly, and he helps Lily hold her dress off the damp grass while she reassumes her shoes and heads back to the reception in a run. Sirius stares out over the lake, listening without hearing to the crickets and marsh frogs singing to the stars. So he’s slowly been falling in love, treacherous and steady as the creep of magma, and it’s caught him unawares. Asleep on watch. Absolutely Fucking Terrified. A breeze skitters by, ruffling his collar, and he makes to stand and face the heady glow of the party again when footsteps to his right snap up his attention.

“Missed you on the inside.” The slightly breathless voice riles Sirius’ insides like the wind on his shirt as Remus comes out of the mire of night and sits beside him on the bench. His face is flushed, half with exertion and half with pleasant drunkenness, and Sirius commands the flare of maddening, stupid jealousy to stay its hand as they meet eyes. Remus smiles, dopey and carefree and secretively knitting his fingers into Sirius’.

“I think I would like to take you home now,” he sings, “danced my feet right off, and would quite appreciate you holding me up on the way back to our little nest. Tweet-tweet,” he adds in falsetto, flittering a ruffle on Sirius’ lapel in drunken flippancy.

“Did the little bird enjoy waltzing with the chickadees?” Sirius asks softly, not without thinly-veiled passive aggression that Remus clearly doesn’t pick up, still idly flicking at Sirius’ shirt. “Or did they find out he was a hound instead and run?”

Remus misses the vitriol, or strategically ignores it, and laughs. “The little bird is indeed a hound,” he murmurs, his eyes hazing dreamily and his hand slowing to instead twist a gentle finger through a sprig of lace. “He enjoyed playing with the hens but would now very much enjoy another dog who knows _allllll_ his favorite games…”

Sirius closes his eyes and swallows heavily as Remus trails his hand down to the inside of Sirius’ thigh, dangerously flirtatious—if he very well is in love, Sirius has gotten to know the twists and turns of its beginnings through the breathtaking physicality he has learned alongside Remus since their outset. Only ever Remus; nobody before him was ever patient enough to put up with Sirius’ abysmal attitude and dig down to the true heart of his personality before he shaped up and became a little bit less of a bastard. If he thinks hard enough Sirius can still recall the feeling of lying awake in fourth year, heart hammering in his chest and soaring because _Moony laughed when I hexed Dearborn’s skin blue,_ or _Moony said he likes the way my hair is growing out_ , pining always for the boy with a fractured spirit but never knowing exactly what to do about it for two long years. He supposes he has always operated best in the crosswind of blissful ignorance and abject stubbornness.

“Sir Lupin, you’re smacking drunk,” Sirius says plainly. Remus leans over and brushes a sprig of dark hair back behind Sirius’ ear.

“Sir Black, you’re absolutely correct. Your reward is raucous satisfaction, would you like to return to our flat and claim it?”

 _Ours;_ Sirius wonders if Remus knows how intensely that word’s application to things they own twists his nerves in the most pleasantly painful and confusing ways. He stands, pulling Remus up gently alongside him and steadying his balance. Remus chuckles as he looks down at his feet, benevolent and amused, and Sirius can’t stop himself through his own light rime of intoxication from kissing the back of Remus’ hand that he holds in his own. Remus looks up at him as if he had just promised a lifetime of new moons, and Sirius loses his breath for a fraction of a second. He needs to name this feeling—no, no he _can’t_ name this feeling. Not yet. Not when it still only has the rational equivalent of a retaining wall and half a roof atop it. Time resumes, Sirius finds his lungs again, and he promises himself that he’ll search for the right sort of brick and mortar sometime later. For now, the present awaits. He loops an arm behind Remus’ back to support him and points them towards the fiery orange glow of the hall; “We’ll say goodnight to Lily and James and Pete, and then right back to home.”

“Home is where the heart is,” Remus says gaily to himself, oblivious, and Sirius is glad for the ink-black of night that hides his dark flush at the coincidence of it all.

—

Sirius decides immediately that all Floo journeys should be amended to include the thrill of Remus Lupin’s lips on one’s own before even having a chance to exit the hearth. Well, not expressly _Remus’_ for everyone else, those are _his,_ but the…the equivalent. And the smell of his aftershave with the piney ash and brick and— _oh Merlin,_ the warmth of those hands dipping under one’s vest and—

“I’m an impatient drunk, Padfoot,” rough and desperate and so close to his ear he feels the breath before he hears the plea, so he seizes those beautiful shoulders and the two men stumble out of the Floo and into the sitting room. The lights are off, it’s so late at night that the only sound that comes from Canis Major on the charmed grandfather clock is a sleepy whine, and the only thing that seems to exist is the immediacy of Remus’ direction. He’s clutching at Sirius like a life raft, insistent and luxurious and _perfect, fuck,_ that’s the spot on Sirius’ neck that makes his legs weak and Remus groans light and low as their balance shifts with the motion, Remus’ back pressed firmly against the wall and Sirius leaning into him with the insistent weight of need.

“Glad you wore the robes?” Sirius asks in a breathless rush. He deftly undoes the pearl buttons on Remus’ collar and licks the skin there in a sweep up from collarbone to earlobe. Remus’ hands tense at Sirius’ back and he exhales in a fluttering stutter as he cants his hips forward.

“Look who’s talking, you fucking monarch,” and Remus accents his own roughly-cobbled compliment by, somehow, besting the haze of inebriation and undoing Sirius’ coat and vest with alacrity. They meet lips in haste, clumsy but perfectly. Pulling back, “The girls were fun but they weren’t built like you so it wasn’t nearly as nice as it should have been,” Remus’ sentence ending in a burst of surprised and carefree laughter as Sirius growls and lifts Remus to slide further up the wall. He gains direct access to the whorls of the skin on his chest beneath the further parting of more purple-and-green brocade, which he traces with the punctuation of his mouth and tongue. He feels Remus wend his fingers into his hair, pull him closer, and he pushes aside another measure of cloth to reach as much skin as possible. A faint tear snarls, muffled, from one of the seams beneath his hand, and Sirius’ insides shock him with a shuddering wave of arousal that accompanies the destruction of his old family robes in the name of pleasing Remus Lupin. _He needs to do that again._

Lowering Remus back to his feet with an airy groan of protest, Sirius swiftly sheds his own jacket and shirt. He moves to catch Remus in their tangled kiss again but is stopped by Remus advancing and flipping their positions between the wall.

“I had suspected you ducked outside,” Remus murmurs along the plane of Sirius’ stomach, easing onto his knees in what was quickly becoming a repeat of his favorite storage closet incident, “to tell the truth it made me feel _quite_ powerful that I could make you so angry.”

Sirius arches his head back against the wall as Remus grips him through his trousers to accent his words, the pressure and heat a blessed combination.

“Take off my bloody clothes and tell me more,” he breathes, touching a surprisingly gentle hand to the side of Remus’ face and brushing a crop of runaway hair back along his forehead. Remus smiles, lopsided and ecstatic and rich with inhibition, and he begins unfastening the well-wrought buttons and ties along Sirius’ trousers.

“It’s a fascinating thing to see you jealous,” Remus continues, steadily moving the fabric down Sirius’ tensed and eager legs, “your eyes go about twelve degrees bluer and you develop the most _delicious_ flush, and with all those lingering looks on top of it, to know it’s for me?”—Remus presses a kiss to the hollow of Sirius’ right hip bone—“Fucking magnificent.”

Remus kisses Sirius’ hip again, with more hunger, a small sound escaping him that makes Sirius twitch to be touched. Remus is taken with the curve of Sirius’ iliac muscle, moving his mouth along it like a slow river, both left and right and back again, while Sirius shudders beneath him in teased bliss. “Don’t worry though,” Remus hums, “I’ll always make it up to you. Would be cruel otherwise—“ he finally wraps his hand around Sirius, searing warm as always and soft and exploratory and So Absolutely Lovely _oh right there_ “—and I could never bear anyone being cruel to you, Pads.” Remus looks up at him, wide green eyes and massive pupils and dark red tongue sweeping across his lips before he opens his mouth to make Sirius stammer several colorful curses, take him hot and willing and deep; Sirius sees the northern lights implode behind his eyes, and he tries not to move his hips so to better let Remus ply his eager skill.

Gentle hands on his thighs, urging him back into the wall at the same time his instincts are telling him to curl forward into the blind warmth surround him, rhythm, ease, comfort, love, _love, LOVE,_ Sirius bites down hard on his fist to keep the monstrous word from galloping out behind his teeth. “Remus,” he prays instead, his voice cracking, the tumult and conflict of his battered heart all trussed up in the two most lovely syllables to ever cross his tongue, as Remus hums a coy interrogatory and grips him tenderly at the curve of his lower back.

“Don’t—don’t finish me yet,” Sirius manages to say around his fever of heady euphoria, “I want you with me.”

Remus releases him slowly, his darkened gaze daring Sirius to look away from the motion. He stands to press himself close, and Sirius shudders as the robes left on Remus ghost over him like a different sort of expert tongue. He pulls Remus into another kiss, softer at its outset but immediately honed to canine fervor with its notes of rum, whiskey, wine, and Sirius’ own skin. Sirius holds as much of Remus as he can at once, the taught muscles of the freckled and scarred back moving under his arms like caged, raw magic, and he gathers a handful of fabric before pulling them apart like curtains. Another seam rips, jagged and fluttering, and Sirius throws the piles of finery to the floor to bare Remus’ torso as he feels vengeful pleasure course through him again.

“Lie down, Moons,” he urges, panting, pulled down atop Remus like a blanket. He braces himself with slightly-shaking limbs and lowers a hand to Remus’ trousers to press a palm along the length of him that needs freeing.

“Is this alright?” he whispers, and Remus nods frantically with a raw-voiced _God yes,_ so “Tell me what you want,” he orders, keeping his hand moving in a slow pattern that makes Remus’ breath catch and reset, catch and reset.

“Bring us along together,” Remus gasps, “in—in your hand, oil it with that one charm— _oh bugger fuck, there, that—“_

“This one?” Sirius asks with a cur’s smile as he conjures the first wandless spell he taught himself for this very sake, ruining the trousers straining on Remus’ hips with a dark patch of wetness as he continues to tease.

“Christ, Sirius, yes, that one, just—just touch me before you trigger an early transformation or something, _fuck_.”

Sirius fumbles with the fastenings on the dark green silk beneath his hand, taking Remus’ pants with them and adding this final bastion of cloth between Remus’ blessed skin and his own to the shed, embroidered bedlam beneath them. The resulting hushed exclamation from Remus as Sirius wraps a warm, slicked hand around his length makes Sirius shiver with adoration.

He slides himself into the flexed warmth of his fingers alongside Remus, and the twinned string of their ecstasy coils around Sirius liked perfume as it knits into the epicenter of his longing. The moment of stasis before either one of them begins moving is hallowed; Sirius breathes in the dialect of Remus’ scent from the juncture of his neck and Remus grips his shoulders desperately, nipping at his earlobe before begging softly “Sirius, please,” and in the velvet whisper of skin-on-skin they’re moving, slightly addled for the pitch and roll of drunkenness but _oh,_ the waves are glorious and they find their rhythm like an unmarked island adrift in the Atlantic.

Unknown time passes, could have been a second and could have been years, he never knows, always looses himself in this bliss—Sirius finds himself intoning affirmations to overwrought murmured nothings from Remus, anchorless prayers woven bright with phrases tucked into the middle-distance between “You’re so warm” and “I want you, I need you, _I need you.”_ Sirius feels his own arrival toward the white noise of climax building like an approaching radio signal, clarifying itself with each successive stroke of their bodies. He pulls back to look at Remus, perfect portrait of dazed beauty, flushed and fucked and meeting Sirius’ eyes with razor-sharp intensity that refuses to release its hold, and Sirius kisses him—must kiss him, could never keep from kissing him, as though their only language is lips and teeth and breath—until Remus makes a small sound that Sirius recognizes all too well as impending orgasm.

“Come for me, Remus,” Sirius pants against Remus’ mouth, speeding his tempo and feeling his voice catch with his own building release, “say my name.”

And Remus’ thread snaps, his cry for Sirius hewn into two raw gasps as he spills thick into Sirius’ hand for the second time that day. He bites down on Sirius’ shoulder as he rides out the ripples of shuddering finality, and Sirius finishes sudden and hard with an unfettered shout at the lance of searing pleasure that cleaves his core. They rut unevenly through the arcs of each ending, sloughing off the last stages of sex in deep, languid rolls of their hips. Sirius flexes the ache from his tired fingers once they stop, satisfied, and he summons his wand from the fray of clothing for a quick cleansing charm for the both of them. Their heavy breathing punctuates the silence of the hour, too late for evening and too early for morning, and Remus is the first to rally his energy and speak.

“Our friends should get married more often.”

“We just need more excuses to put you in dress robes, fuck the occasion, make it a funeral for all I bloody care.”

With a leaden arm, Remus gestures widely to the splay of torn fabric underneath him; Sirius thinks the shapes his body makes in the half-light are far too lovely to go ignored, so he draws a surprisingly gently stroke down Remus’ hipbone and ignores the scream in his brain warning him _Too Soft, Too Sweet, Watch Yourself._

“Won’t ever be _these_ robes again though, Christ, Pads,” Remus scolds, but the undertones of laughter color his words deeply. “I thought I was the one with the penchant for tearing things up once a month.”

“You’re rubbing off on me, Moony,” Sirius sighs, letting his thumb draw lazy circles where it rests at the height of Remus’ leg. Neither is making an effort to move him away, so Sirius revels in the closeness regardless of the implication. He smiles as his lack of inhibition decides to betray an ounce of the pure ardor ruining his insides; softly, “what a disaster.”

“Disaster indeed,” Remus whispers in return, kissing him long and light just the way Sirius knows he likes best after a good long day. They study one another for a measure of time after parting, quietly assessing the depths of their wide eyes and starlit skin, and they share a small smile that betrays their first signs of exhaustion.

Sirius feels growing mountains of questions, confessions, empty promises, all rattled to life by his conversation with Lily and crowding behind his tongue, and he locks them up expertly before they can bound out through his careful defenses; he’s a work in progress, more so than anyone really has a right to be, and he knows it’s a mistake to keep all this in. But Sirius Black has never shied away from a good mistake, and there will be time enough for all that as autumn draws closer with the context of questioning one’s purpose. For now, in the throes of summer’s propensity to foster delectable idyll, Sirius tells himself he is content to let him and Remus unfold as the unsaid and chaotic happenstance they have always been. He leans forward again and kisses his favorite catastrophe.

_-fin-_


End file.
